


Sorter's Remorse

by ThatBlueHairedGirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark Harry, Dark Hermione, Dark Ron, Dark!Trio, Slytherin Harry, Slytherin Hermione, Slytherin Ron
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6949666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatBlueHairedGirl/pseuds/ThatBlueHairedGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hat's biggest mistake of all was, perhaps, keeping them together. </p><p> </p><p>Dark!AU, in which the trio are all sorted into Slytherin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue (The Sorting)

      The Sorting Hat paused, unsure, uneasy, on the heads of three of the first years of 1991. The first true hat-stalls in a quarter century.  

      Hermione Granger, a muggle-born with cold eyes and a penchant for vengeance.

      Ron Weasley, a quiet boy, overlooked in favor of his five older brothers, but with a deep-rooted anger burning within.

      Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, whispered about from the moment he arrived and who appeared to be missing something inside, something important.

      Ron was the first of the three to be sorted, but still afforded a troubling pause before being delivered results. He was brave, certainly, but a reckless sort of brave, the most dangerous kind; he was loyal; he was calculating and driven; and perhaps most concerningly of all, he felt a sense of entitlement, a consequence of his achieving siblings. His heart was hardened by envy, a callous forming where compassion should otherwise be. Ron Weasley was sorted into Slytherin after six and a half minutes. 

      Harry Potter was next. The Hat had heard of him, of course, as all hats and wizards alike had. The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, who defeated the most powerful Dark wizard as an infant. It seemed obvious that he had to have some sort of darkness in him as well. After all, how else would a mere baby have been able to kill Voldemort? Harry was apathetic and silent as the Hat pondered what to do. Again, he was brave, just as the Weasley boy was, intelligent, loyal. But while Ron desired recognition from his family, Harry desired fame in the wizarding world. He wanted to be known as the greatest of all time, the wizard who took down the Dark Lord. He craved the love and admiration he never received on Privet Drive, and he was placed in Slytherin after precisely nine minutes.

      Hermione Granger was the most puzzling of all. Fiercely loyal. Courageous. Intelligent beyond words, beyond her years. She wanted to change the world, to create equality, and she was willing to get there by leaving behind a path of destruction. Ruthless. She had no time for mercy, the Hat could tell, only cold, hard, justice, and this was the defining factor which set her into Slytherin after a record-breaking thirteen minutes.

      Soon the Hat moved on to the other first years, but it did not forget about the three hat-stalls, and it wouldn't for a very long time. 

 


	2. First Year, September

      The Hat had since pushed the hat-stalls to the back of its mind, that is until Professor Snape mentioned them in Dumbledore's office.

      "I'm intrigued, sir, but also concerned," he said, "by three Slytherins in my first year Potions class. They are by themselves quite interestingly powerful, but together, they are quite a force to be reckoned with. Weasley, Potter, and Granger . . . I am, sir, intrigued by Granger in particular. She possesses a sharp mind and a sharper tongue. I haven't seen such genius in awhile."

      "Yet you're concerned? Why?" Dumbledore folded his hands on his desk, expressionless.

      "I've seen the way she eyes the restricted section of the library. I caught her trying to sneak in, but of course she talked her way out of it. She's quite clever. And Weasley, perhaps I'm wrong, but I thought I glimpsed a copy of  _The Darkest Arts_ in his possession. That book is in the restricted section, or should I say was, and for good cause. You are aware of what it contains? Old rituals, things not even practiced in my lifetime. He's a quiet child, excellent student, but still, I wonder, that book in his hands-"

      "And what of Mr. Potter?"

      "I'm sure you too have wondered about the Boy Who Lived, sir. How a mere infant could defeat the Dark Lord. Surely it's crossed your mind that he, too, might be Dark."

      "Thank you, Severus, for your concerns. I'll look into the books. But of the other accounts, they are, after all, children. Intelligence is nothing to be shamed, and curiosity, should I remind you, is not a sin. Try to encourage them to apply their knowledge elsewhere in the future."

      Snape nodded grimly. "Of course, Professor."

     The Hat was reminded of the Sorting nearly a month ago. That Hermione, Ron, and Harry were deemed intelligent was not surprising, nor was their interest in the Dark Arts. But the Hat had never considered all three banding together. On their own, they could be handled, but together, they could be lethal.


	3. First Year, Halloween

    The Hat watched silently as Professor Dumbledore sat in his office and sighed.

    He’d thought that perhaps the Potter boy might begin to show some empathy as the school year went on. He’d thought that perhaps he’d misjudged him as sullen, resentful, and that as he got to know the boy he would realize Harry was in fact a kind and caring child.

    The first years’ flying debut could not have gone more wrong. Of course, both Potter and the Malfoy boy had taunted Neville Longbottom, throwing his Remembrall like some cruel game of catch; but only Potter had flown straight into Longbottom on his broom, resulting in Neville’s broken arm. Potter hadn’t seemed terribly distraught about the whole incident, but maybe that was just an accident. Potter had lived in a cupboard under the stairs for ten years, he was bound to be a little different, a little odd. His aunt and uncle had stomped all traces of magic out of him, or tried to anyway, and in the process it seemed they had stomped out all the love as well.

    It was, after all, only October. He’d never even had a conversation with the boy. Maybe he’d prove different. With flying skills like that, he’d make a fine seeker, a Quidditch player to make Slytherin house proud. . .

    There was a knock at the door.

    “It’s Quirrell, sir, and it’s an emergency!”

    “Do come in,” Dumbledore called out, and the gargoyle swung aside to reveal the turban-clad professor.

    “The troll, the troll from the defense wards for the Stone, it’s loose in the dungeons. I’ve called the Ministry and they’re sending some Aurors, but they’re going to ask questions, and the students−it’s not safe−“

    “How did this troll escape?” He immediately thought of Potter, of his two equally reckless friends, but no, a first year could not have done this. “Never mind. Tell the heads of house to bring their students back to the dormitories at once.”

    Quirrell ran. Dumbledore closed his eyes and waited for it to be over.

    Not long after, Snape appeared in his office, ushering in front of him a bushy-haired first year, covered in blood.

    “Severus, what’s this about? Who is this?”

    “This, sir, is Hermione Granger.”

    “What’s happened to her?”

    Hermione interrupted with an incredulous laugh. “I’ve killed it,” she said, quite happily surprised. “I’ve killed that troll! All by myself. A mountain troll. I’ve killed it!”


	4. First Year, Halloween Aftermath

What was Halloween at Hogwarts without a little excitement?

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore said calmly, trying to hide his alarm, "how on earth did you kill a full-grown mountain troll?"

Hermione grew quiet, her arrogance fading slightly out of fear of punishment. "There was a spell, in a book I read. It was a school book," she added defensively. "So I had every right to be reading it."

"And what, pray tell, was this spell?"

" _Sectumsempra,_ " she murmured. "I found it in an old Potions book."

Snape blanched at this, but if Dumbledore noticed, he did not say anything. 

"You, as a first year, succeeding in casting a spell even I am unaware of? Rather impressive, don't you think, Severus?"

Snape was expressionless as he replied, "Rather dangerous, I'd say."

"And you said you found this in a Potions book?" said Dumbledore.

"Yes," said Hermione. "It was in the library! It wasn't even restricted! So I had every right to-"

"Yes, I believe you did. I'm sure there are several questionable books which have found their way out of the restricted section. What I'm still in awe of is the fact that you succeeded in casting this spell, or rather, this curse, as a first-year."

"MIss Granger is very bright," Snape offered.

 "It is important to use our intelligence wisely," said Dumbledore. "However, since no true harm came out of this incident, I've decided not to punish Miss Granger for her cleverness or her curiosity. I merely hope she learns a thing or two about recklessness."

Hermione smiled, looking pleased, and left Dumbledore's office. Her hands were still red, and there was still a stain across her face and the front of her robes where she appeared to have been sprayed with blood.

"Watch her, Severus. You're quite right in your accusations. She's . . . troublesome."

 

 


	5. First Year, The Potions Incident

The next time a mysterious incident occurred surrounding Miss Granger, the Hat wasn't even there to witness it, something it was rather glad about. 

_"She's a mudblood."_  

Snape whipped around from his position at the blackboard, the stubby piece of chalk dropping to the floor and shattering. Each student was sitting calmly, if a little confused now, at their desks, quills paused over parchment, empty cauldrons waiting for their upcoming lesson. Each, of course, except Pansy Parkinson, who was leaned over her cauldron and whispering to her friends. She was, however, not all that skilled at whispering. 

"Granger. I heard her parents pick at peoples' teeth for a living. It's disgusting!" 

Snape's breath stuck in his throat; something about Hermione's name made him terribly uneasy. Parkinson's shark-like grin and the fact that her desk-mate was Granger made him equally uncomfortable; if there were ever a pair of students to start trouble, it would be those two. But Snape believed in letting the students sort out their own problems, so he turned back to the blackboard and tried to ignore them. 

"How dirty," one of Pansy's friends replied. "They're like animals."

"Oh, all Muggles are. That's why Granger's so particularly . . . beaver-like." There were giggles, and Snape assumed Pansy was referring to Hermione's rather large front teeth. He closed his eyes. Interfering would teach them nothing. 

Then, his blood ran cold. "Are you talking about me, Pansy?" 

That voice. It was so like a viper in the grass, simpering, playing nice, waiting to strike. She was still seated at her desk, ankles crossed primly, quill in hand. 

"Who else would we be talking about, you filthy mudblood?" Pansy snarled. 

"Oh, good, I only wanted to make sure." Snape peeked over his shoulder, and caught Hermione smiling brightly at the other girls before going back to her notes. Her hand went absentmindedly to the tip of her wand, which stuck out of one of her socks. She'd reacted peculiarly, but no blood was shed, so he continued to copy the last instructions for a Befuddlement Draught. 

"Now," he said, turning to address the first years, "you must be careful to measure  _exactly_ the amount of lovage I've instructed. It is extremely powerful, and too much might turn the receiver from befuddled to amnesiac. You may begin. Once finished, you will sample your potion. If done correctly, it should bring about mild confusion, with a pleasant lilac colour. If your potion is a canary yellow, you have not added enough lovage. If your potion is a dark violet, or you cannot answer these questions−" He gestured the questions on the board, each simple tests regarding the day of the week, the weather that morning, and others similar. "−your draught is too potent." He sat back at his desk, eyes trained carefully on Parkinson and Granger. 

Nothing happened. At least, not that Snape could detect. Each went about making their Befuddlement Draught quietly and kept to themselves. Snape grew bored, and began grading last week's essays on the use of potions in rituals. Malfoy's was mediocre at best, but Lucius had just donated several hundred Galleons to the school's potions ingredients supply, so he marked it "acceptable" and moved on. Weasley's essay was excellent−he earned an "outstanding", and a look of surprise. The idea of Potter's essay could have been great, but the writing was poor at best, so he, too, received an "acceptable". 

A sudden shriek made him knock over his inkwell onto Parvati Patil's essay. 

Pansy Parkinson was looking around in utter shock. "Where am I?"

"Miss Parkinson?" Snape asked hesitantly. "Perhaps you made your potion too strong."

"I don't know my name," she murmured, looking on the brink of tears. "I don't know what year it is."

"Miss Parkinson, maybe you'd ought to go to the infirmary." He'd told them all  _specifically_   to use the correct amount of lovage! Teaching first-years really was like teaching goldfish.

Unless−

Impossible.

Hermione Granger sat reading, quite unperturbed,  _Hogwarts: A History_ mere centimetres from her nose. 

Several of Pansy's friends rushed her to Madam Pomfrey's. It was only several moments later, after the students had been dismissed and Snape was tidying up the ingredients, that he noticed Granger's and Parkinson's leftover potions. Granger's was, strangely, a bright yellow, indicating she had not added enough lovage. Parkinson's was dark violet, indicating she'd added too much.

But when Snape mentioned it to Dumbledore, he was told that this wasn't proof that Granger had tampered with Parkinson's potion, that Granger simply couldn't have acted so maliciously to a classmate.

Snape was unconvinced.

 


	6. First Year, Christmas Holiday

   There comes a time when the Sorting Hat is moved temporarily from its permanent home in Dumbledore’s office to a different room, a dark, damp, dingy room at the center of a labyrinth of corridors; hidden just enough that only the right person could find it. If they know what they are looking for.

   The Sorting Hat is not alone in this room. There is Another Thing, a Dangerous Thing, and the Hat is the reluctant guardian of this Other Thing.

   “Keep watch over it,” Dumbledore had ordered sternly. “The Mirror of Erised is a most beautiful trap.”

   The mirror, tall and ornate, dusty, has been in this room for at least the span of the Sorting Hat’s lifetime if not longer. The Hat is bored watching over it, bored in its duty to prevent the jaws of the snare from springing closed. No students ever wander this way, perhaps because it is so out of the way that even simply getting lost is not enough to find it.

   Until the Christmas holiday.

   The heavy oak door creaks open, waking the Sorting Hat from its slumber, and a small, red-haired boy in pajamas creeps in. He’s freckled and his face is gaunt; there are shadows under his eyes that make the Hat uneasy. Something is not right about this boy, the Hat decides, because he isn’t, in fact, a boy, but a shadow of one. An incomplete sketch.

   The boy sits cross-legged in front of the mirror. How much time passes? Minutes? Hours? Time is nothing to the Hat. Nor does it seem to be anything to the boy. His eyes remain glued, unblinking, to the looking glass, staring at something the Hat can’t see.

   The boy leaves eventually.

   But the next night, he comes back. And he isn’t alone.

   “Harry,” the red-haired boy whispers to his friend—Harry Potter, that’s Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Hat realizes, “Harry, look at this!”

   “It’s only a mirror,” Harry says dully, “I only see myself.”

   “I see myself, too,” the red-haired boy says excitedly. “I’m vacationing with my family. Only. . . where are my brothers? And Ginny? I only see myself and my parents.”

   “Maybe it shows you the future,” Harry suggests, eyes trailing upward. He couldn’t be less interested.

   “A future? All by myself?”

   “Well, what else could it be?”

   “Come here, Harry, tell me what you see.”

   “I told you already. I see myself, and nothing else.”

   “Just you?”

   “Just me, Ron.”

   “Maybe it does show the future,” the red-haired boy, Ron, says. “But how could I have a future without my brothers and Ginny?”

   Harry gives him an odd sort of look, his eyes flashing. If the Hat could move, it would recoil. “Maybe your future doesn’t have your siblings,” he says, “because you took them out of it.”


End file.
